


Seabhaid (Cascade Error)

by Sgeulaiche



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Friendship, Linguistics, M/M, Multi, Past Relationships, Scottish Gaelic, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgeulaiche/pseuds/Sgeulaiche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial murder leaves behind a clue that brings John's heritage, and personal past, into the forefront.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seabhaid (pronounced *sort of* like "she-a-ij") means to be lead astray or to wander from. The English title is Cascade Error.
> 
> At the end of each chapter, I've included translations and clarifying points.
> 
> The italicized parts are presented in flashback.
> 
> Seabhaid will update on Sundays, unless I get impatient and want to do it sooner.

“…and while I couldn’t pull any information from this note,” The tall one began petulantly, John’s once low blood pressure now shooting through the roof. “I don’t see any harm, or gain for that matter, in letting you ‘take a crack at it’.” John’s overly clean hands snatched the paper Sherlock had pitched between his fingers like a cigarette. He stared intently at the page, wrinkled from water damage and intellectual ponderings.

 

 

T H A E M O M H O R A N T H A M I S E B E G A N N T H A M I A I R M O D H O I G H

“Have you made any headway?” John said, taking a momentary break from worrying his bottom lip in thought.

Sherlock sighed, running his fingers through his worse for wear hair. “No, it doesn’t have enough morpheme variation to be English translated into an alphabet code, even if the code changes every couple of letters.” He handed John a series of papers, absolutely dripping with ink. “This is the breakup of the letters into ‘words’ and suggestions for anagrams--”

 

 

T H A E M/ H O M H O/ R A N T/ H A M I S/ E B E/ G A N N T/ H A M I A/ I R/ M O D/ H O I G H

T H A/ E M H O M H O/ R A N /T H A M/ I S E/ B E G A N/ N/ T H A M/ I A I R/ M O D H/ O I/ G H

T H A E M H O M/ H O R A N/ T H A M I S E/ B E G A N N T/ H A M/ I A I/ R M O D/ H O I G H

I'm bothersome anathema, Ho Ho! A grim and hating him!

Aaah Arabian Desert Gheg Hih Nimh Hmt Mio Mono Otm

 

“But that means literally nothing, given how much we have gathered about the victims. This MacQueen woman is probably the most enlightening of all the rubbish--”

“Sherlock! I’m not going to stand here while you—while you speak ill of the dead.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” John sighed.

Sherlock just nodded, leaning back in his chair. “I really hate this case, John. Bodies just keep turning up and I can’t find what connects them. I can’t fi—I think I might be loos—”

“Take a deep breath; you’re going to give yourself an ulcer. Don’t shoot me down, but have you tried just reading it?”

There was a stillness pervading the flat like the smell of less than satisfactory take away—pungent and triggering. John was preparing himself for a tongue lashing while Sherlock took cleansing breaths, trying his damndest to avoid exploding at John.

 

_Absolutely everyone, especially Sherlock, was frustrated by this case. Peigi MacQueen, female, aged 28, was the seventh victim in the string of what were now most undeniably murders. All of the victims were found in various London political hotspots—parliament, the homes of significant political players, important historical sites. The bodies were all the same—injuries consistent with having been drained of all fluids, stripped to nothing but identification access cards, and wrapped in a bolt of expensive tartan. What started as a joke amongst the forensics team assigned to these cases began to spin wildly out of control—this was no longer a person they were dealing with—it couldn’t be. There was no trace, no signs, nothing in the toxicology report, no signs of struggle. Sherlock, initially having scoffed at the accusations of some Nix or other mythical creature fell into a grumbling silence after the evidence refused to speak to him. This killer was perfect._

_The victims themselves were as similar in life as in their untimely deaths: middle class, educated: none were married or too close to their families, very common for workaholics, and all working for organizations that promoted a more than financial relationship with their homeland—Scotland. They were linguists, historians, mathematicians, engineers but were all connected by either “fervent nationalism” or “cultural preservation”—the flat mates argued endlessly._

_The investigation was going nowhere fast—after three deaths, it seemed that the victims were no longer politically motivated protestors angry with parliament—none of the victims were particularly anti-English, nor would they have been able to slit their own throats and drain their own bodies of blood before painstakingly wrapping themselves up in hand-woven wool. No Scottish separatist group could be charged with more than felony mischief. After the fifth death there could be no single member of an Anti-Scottish organization located, let alone pinned with five gruesome deaths. Both nations’ governments had begun to bicker quietly, an angry susurrus filling every parliamentary pause. A sixth death brought no change to the investigation; however the number of breakable things at 221 B was dwindling, again, much to John’s chagrin. Sherlock was about one finger pad’s grip away from hurling a teacup into the backsplash when he’d received the text:_ New vic: fem, “Peigi MacQueen”, foreign object in mouth-- GL. _Like a magician’s trick, Sherlock was gone in a flash of woolen coat, leaving John to chase him to the scene: Epsom Downs*._

_“Has anyone touched MacQueen?” Sherlock barked, pushing past police tape. The forensics team, short one Anderson for “sick leave” fled from the body like spooked rats. Sherlock crouched, his pocket magnifying glass glinting and flitting about as he examined the remains. John looked around the stables, desperately trying to avoid staring at the angry, red gash on the woman’s neck. John jumped at the sudden sound of his own name. “Please remove the foreign object.” Sherlock requested in that funny way of his that was never a request. John yielded, coming to kneel in the dirt as he gently worked the victim’s jaw open with his gloved hand. A few moments of poking around with tweezers while all but begging Sherlock to actually shine the torch down her throat later; John had retrieved the “foreign object”._

_“It’s a folded piece of paper…?” Sherlock clicked his tongue, snatching the paper from the end of John’s tweezers with little regard for the previous location of said paper. John’s stomach gave a little churn at the thought. “Again, you look, but you do not see—this is a note, placed here by our killer. Obviously, he thinks we’re running behind schedule…” He said, his tone more than annoyed. He unfolded the paper with more tenderness than a lover’s touch before letting out what John could only describe as a squeal of happiness as he jotted down the contents of the note. “It’s a code, John!”_

 

“I would have gladly just read the note,” Said Sherlock in a manner much nicer than John had anticipated. “But I haven’t the foggiest notion how to pronounce ‘M-H’, in addition to finding the gaps between words to resemble human syntactical order.”

John simply nodded, pinching his bottom lip and rolling it between his fingers in thought. He unwittingly began to mutter: “‘M-H’, ‘M-H’, huh…‘Muh-ha’, ‘Mah-Huh’…” while taking a turn around the flat, while cooking and eating a dinner for one, while getting ready for bed.

John had officially turned in for the night—bed clothes neatly pulled back, spare blanket drawn up toward his chin, typically nighttime thoughts and fantasies petering off to a dull roar. He laid on his side, facing away from the door, his final resting position. John was winding down. He smirked at the seductive flash of a half formed sex dream, the gate keeper to sleep. “Mi-mhodhail…**” His eyes snapped open and he sat up perhaps too fast, sleep-dulled mind looking for the voice that woke him, searching for the source of his own voice. That was me, I was talking in my sleep. He furrowed his eyebrows, instantly transported back in time to boyhood French and how he could stay up all night thinking about one word, about how it was spelled, about how it felt when it tumbled around his mouth. He shifted to lay on his back, his index finger scrawling with word in the air above him: M I M H O D H A I L— mee-vo-el. “Blood hell!” John muttered under his breath, fighting his way out of the tangle of sheets his bed had become.

John’s feet absolutely thundered down the stairs and into the sitting room where Sherlock hadn’t budged. Sherlock tipped his head up in confusion: John never walked hard, his steps were always light and soft out of respect for those downstairs. He must be upset. “‘V’” is all John said when he finally spoke: V. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “John, what are you-?”

“I know what this is. ‘M-H’ makes a ‘V’ noise. I was sleeping and i-it just came to me.” Sherlock’s face darkened, a clear sign that he was suffering from his lack of understanding John’s exhausted babbling.

“John, I know this will sound incredulous coming from me, but I think you’ve stayed up too long—what are you carrying on about?”

“I think I know what the note says, or at least I know someone who can read it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never beta'd, so mind the mistakes. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Powerful memories came back to John Watson in bright flashes of hot, white light. They would seize him, pause him, lure him back into the past and suspend him in time. The train to Scotland tick-tick-ticked away, sloshing a sleepy John and churlish Sherlock back and forth. Sherlock yammered on about something, trying to draw connections between the victims and the locations they were found because, apparently, everything a serial killer did was symbolic and important. John nodded absently—no, he didn’t care about a connection between Peigi MacQueen and radical feminism or William Cunningham (“The second victim, John! The doctor!?”) and anarchism. John knew he was getting nowhere, and a far more interesting place to be was folded up in the milky arms of memory. He was still angry at Sherlock, and Sherlock was very much aware. He closed his eyes before letting memory take him, ruminating on their fight.

Sure—John was English. He was born in England, fought for England, was shot for England, but he knew where he’d come from. He “had” a little Gaelic as a child and-and it was not a “dead language”, as Sherlock so sharply put. John knew that Sherlock was just trying to defend his intelligence—there was something out there that John knew before him, and in a petty way, that made him inadequate. Scottish Gaelic was hard to speak, harder to spell and even harder still to read from a note stuffed in a dead girl’s mouth without spaces, accents or punctuation. But it was a part of John, a part of the Watson in him. He knew how few speakers there were, how it had been declared dead by the British government and used was subterfuge in times of war, how it had been barred in schools. It stung—it really smarted that Sherlock could be so inconsiderate of his heritage, simply because he didn’t know. Hrumph.

He knew those words, the ones from the note. They were long ago and far away, but he knew them. From vacations to the West Coast of Scotland, from daytrips to Glasgow, from his grandmother calling him at the hospital during his residency, cooing softly on her line, begging him to _“Ith beagan! ”*._  It wasn’t these memories that shut him down after reading the note, making his heart catch in his throat, leaving him scampering to find a telephone and make a call to Scotland—it was the memory of his Sine** McLean.

 

_Sine was like nothing John had ever seen. She was not his type—she was shorter, stouter, stronger, smarter. She had long, long curly hair and mouth that would shame any intellectual and sailor alike. She plunked down next to him on his first day of University in some droll little general education art class that was “necessary” for creating well rounded students. They were off, thick as thieves for the next eight years. Sine studied just about every subject imaginable, claiming that if it ended in “-ist”, she was qualified to do it. She was dazzling in her intelligence, but her ability to wrap John around her finger with a turn of phrase was unparalleled until he’d met Sherlock—and Freud would have a field day with that idea. Sine finished her undergraduate program as an anthropologist, but her true passion was linguistics. Sine was always spouting off facts about words or quizzing John on his knowledge of English words in foreign languages. He thought it was charming, then endearing, then it made him fall in love._

_The apex on the memory washed over John, the moment in time that pointed all arrows to Sine. It was early summer and he was leaving soon for basic training. People always say they don’t know how they ended up making love to their best friends, but John knew. She didn’t try to stop him from leaving, didn’t beg him to back out. She just nodded. “John, you have to do what you have to-”_

_John wasn’t listening to her soliloquy; he was just listening to the hammering of his heart and the blood in his ears as they crashed into each other, the dam crushed under the awesome weight of that moment. He remembered leaning over her, panting sweet nothings into her hair as his body and mind cleaved their connection, his movements losing rhythm and pace. Sine whined her quiet keening noises, her palm pressed against his chest, her other fingers curled into his shoulder—pushing and pulling to keep his heart kicking against her hand. “John-John, I-” She sobbed, tossing her head back as John moved to place his head against the swiftly thumping hallow of her neck. “T-tha gràdh agam ort! ***”_

_John kissed his “I know”s into her bones, memorizing the shape and size of each._

 

John swallowed thickly, carding his fingers through his hair as the memory left him empty. “Sherlock?”

“Mm.” He said, simply recognizing that that was, in fact, his name.

“There’s something you need to know about Sine,” John started, suddenly stripped of his bravado by Sherlock’s piercing grey-blue eyes zeroing in on him.

“I already know that you two were lovers.” Sherlock said simply, as if it were matter of fact.

John furrowed his brow, sitting in silence for a moment. “Well,” He began, folding his arms and looking directly at Sherlock. “I know you’re dying to tell me how you figured it out. Go on then.”

A very gentle, very subtle smile played on Sherlock’s lips. “I know you haven’t listened to a damn thing I’ve said since you called her and asked for her to consult on my case—mind you, without clearing with me.” There was a playful light in Sherlock’s eyes as John all but watched some cybernetic deduction ocular implant focus in on him. “You look nice for being ill-rested and I know that you are. You’ve packed more than you usually would have on a case trip, meaning you think that you will either be going on dates or need nicer clothes for making an impression. Also, you’re wearing that shirt that gets you so much attention—ah, not because it’s a terrible shirt, it’s much better than one of those hideous jumpers you love; people are attracted to the figure you cut in it.”

John listlessly chuckled. “I think that was a complement.”

Sherlock nodded, then looked pointedly away from John. “I will try and—try and behave for Ms. McLean.” John nodded, but chased the affirmation with a frown—Sherlock’s smile was perhaps too mischievous, bordering on sardonic. “Come John, our stop is almost here.” The two men stood on the platform, the mist rolling in from the coast.

John shivered, an overexcitement filling his body as he scanning the station for their third. Sherlock stood close by, bored, his first two fingers ghosting over his lips as if placing an imaginary cigarette between his lips. “Do you see her yet? God, I hope she beat the rain. She’s like 1.6 meters tall, has red, curly hai-”

“John, for the tenth time, I know. By now I could describe her better…Does Sine smoke? Better yet, does she have her own car?”

John sighed. “She said she’d come pick us up—something about an older Jaguar…”

Sherlock paused—a small town Anthropologist and Linguist driving a Jaguar? Even an older one? A collectable? A special edition? Any way you cut it, it was expensive—perhaps more than she could afford, even as the best in her field. Seemed suspicious, especially considering only Sine could read the note…

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone somewhat gruff. “I don’t need you to get all-all thinky about my ex-girlfriend. She’s a good person…” Sherlock cut back his scoff, moving to scan the platform.

“John Hamish Watson, you utter bastard!”

John’s head snapped up, the scowl on his face shattering into a brilliant smile. “Sine!” He was gone in a couple of bounding steps, laughing as he picked the petite woman up, capturing her in a bear hug. Sherlock sighed, pondering idly whether to drag John’s things over or just go find a Jag in the car park. Reaching for his bag, he discovering it was no longer there, but was drawn next to a pair of women’s Chelsea boots. “Ms. McLean, I presume?”

“This is the big, scary London detective everyone’s talking about? I can see why. Cuts a—cuts an intimidating figure.” The two smiled: Sine outright, Sherlock much more subdued and perhaps milliseconds long. “Come on now, boys—rain’s about to break through and there are no dry cleaners where we’re going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Eat a little, eat something  
> ** Pronounced "Shin-uh"  
> *** I love you (lit. Love is at me on you [fairly complicated, I know])


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock frowned, crammed into the backseat of Sine’s car. He was going to hate this trip, he was sure. He crossed his arms, looking out sternly on the dreary day as Sine and John chatted pleasantly—as if it hadn’t been a good number of years since they’d seen each other. Neither talked to him, even if there were an awkward pause, which there rarely was, because Sine’s tinny little sound system played a cassette tape that both of them knew and either hummed or sang along—it didn’t take long to deduce that, oh god, it was a mix tape. How dreadfully affectionate. Perhaps it wasn’t Sherlock’s forte, but wasn’t there some social law about talking to all persons in the party?

Sherlock was flustered, to say the very least. He guts rolled and his head swam, but he wasn’t physically ill—he was just experiencing a feeling, apparently. He could be in London sulking and not on some god forsaken hunk of rock that government funding simply overlooked. He pressed his face to the glass, hoping that the vibrations would soothe him somehow. He couldn’t help it, regardless of what John said---Sine looked suspicious, to say the least. Why couldn’t she have translated it over e-mail? There was no direct evidence tying her to the crimes or the victims, but-but she was the “only one” that could read the note; she demanded that John stay with her—his own company an afterthought. Perhaps she’d killed those people to get close to John—she no doubt knew how proud he was to be an “English-Scot”, so he would, no doubt, keep an eye on the media for anything that could strengthen the connection between him and “home” (How preposterous, “home” was back at Baker Street with him). Sherlock peeled himself from the glass, propping his fingers under his chin. Her academic pedigree was dazzling—it would have been so easy for her to construct a pulley system to lift the bodies and with basic medical or perhaps even an amateur hunting ability, drain the bodies of all fluid. Perhaps that was the incriminating clue—her constant schooling left her broke. They were paid hits, they had to be. But why John? Because she knew she could lure him out here for sex? To kill him? Why? The two obviously had residual feelings for each other, and, statistically, women committed crimes of passion—there was no way John had hurt her, that was just not possible. John could be a bit of a hound, but, apparently, “what red-blooded Englishmen wasn’t?”.

“Sherlock,” John said, twisting around in his seat. No reply. “Sherlock! Come on then, we’re here.”

Sherlock just nodded slowly, unfurling from the backseat with far more grace than a man half his size could have mustered. Sine’s little black jag had parked in front of a small, thatch roofed home. Sherlock was seized with what he could only describe as momentary panic—would there be electricity? He needed to be in constant contact with Lestrade, and perhaps closer authorities if his theory proved to be correct. Distantly, he heard John heap praise on Sine and her house—something about tradition? Strength? Brilliant beauty? There’s nothing brilliant about hewn mud brick and thatch—Sherlock was the brilliant one! He could have the case wrapped up i—jealousy. He was feeling jealousy.

Sherlock begrudgingly slipped out of his shoes entering the house. He frowned slightly—Sine did have a beautiful home. It was white and deep, dark brown with navy. It was maybe two bedrooms, with one large sitting room that had four tasteful wingback chairs centered around a round wooden table. Between the sitting room and the kitchen there was a small dinette which contained a beautiful, four person table, already set for three. All of the furniture was had the same dark, dark stain and the wooden floor was, perhaps, two shades lighter. He made his way to the hearth, really, that was the only way to describe the gaping maw of a fireplace, and took in the pictures and other personal affected on the mantel. “Don’t entertain much, do you, Ms. McLean?” Sherlock could feel John cringe somewhere in the room. Sine just smiled, setting down her bag and placing her keys on a hook. “Please, ‘Sine’. We’re very far north, so I don’t get a lot of visitors. All for the better, I hate a mess—John knows.”

“That’s the understatement of the century.” John replied, his voice dripping with saccharine smiles.

Finally, an awkward silence pervaded the little house as Sherlock examined the pictures on the mantel. _Sister and brother, sister and her kids, brother and herself at Disneyland, graduation, a favorite professor, picture of herself at a dig, John in unifo-_

“John, this one is you.” He blurted out, a little taken back. He never, ever just said something because it was on the tip of his tongue, ever. Sherlock composed himself, turning around to see John’s reaction, which, much to his surprise, wasn’t embarrassment.

John was laughing. “Sine, couldn’t you have framed the one of me in my fatigues? I look like a berk in my dress uniform.”

_Wrong._

“No, I happen to like this one, and I have the one of you in your fatigues in my office at Uni to scare off the sleazy Roman history professor.” “Shame, I’ve always liked Roman history…” Sine said, all hateful laughs and lothsome smiles. 

Sherlock heaved a great sigh, shucking off his coat and hanging it over it arm. This was absolutely the worst.

“So, are you boys’ hungry?” Sine started.

“No”

“Yes,” John spoke over Sherlock “He’s hungry—we’re hungry.”

“Good, I hope you like Cullen Skink !*”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *a type of soup made with fish and potatoes.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock chased a chunk of potato around his bowl, his elegant spoon parting the velvety broth. Sine smiled at him, and Sherlock, in return, shot a nervous glance to John who feigned peace as he ate his soup. “God, you’re so thin! Then again, if I had to eat English food--” She smiled wider, an attempt at humor. John smiled, tapping her with the end of his spoon.

“Watch it Sine. Some of us like English food…” Sherlock offered a nod—he didn’t like English food, or food at all for that matter. Sine sipped from her glass, absolutely contented and calm—the Baker Street boys were less so, fiddling with their silverware or folding and refolding their napkins.

“So, about these murders: how does it work? Who gets to draw the chalk outline? Is there a big, parlor room reveal?”

It took all the willpower Sherlock had not to laugh. “Hardly. I find strings of evidence, I figure out their meanings and connections to the crime and criminal, and I make sure the perpetrators are brought to justice.” John nodded; trying to figure out exactly what it was that he did. “And I guess I’m the muscle.”

“So that’s why you’re here? Because you need a clue? Oh god, am I in some sort of danger?”

“No, or, at least, your safety is not why we’re here. We’re here solely at your insistence, Ms. McLean. There have been seven gruesome murders and the only clue we have lead us to you.”

“Are you accusing me of something, _Mister Holmes_?”

“Why? Are you wanting to confess?”

John set his spoon down perhaps harder than absolutely necessary, a very stern look on his face. “All right kids: that’s enough.” The two begrudgingly took their seats, pointedly not making eye contact.

Sherlock pushed his mostly full bowl of soup away, his fingers pinching the stem of his wine glass. He hated this “best behavior” gimmick, even if that was a Herculean (and, perhaps even a Sisyphean) challenge. He looked for a segue into getting Sine to translate the note after this little spat. _Speaking of murders I’d quite like to prevent an eighth, so if you’d be so kind…_ They finished their dinner in relative silence—John fumbled through his almost none existent Gaelic complimenting her about the meal and Sine gently corrected him, her kilter much more like earlier this evening: inquisitive, generous, sweet. Is this what girlfriends were like? Why did people like them? It seemed to Sherlock that Sine was all over the place as far as her personality was concerned—gentle, warmhearted, fierce, angry. Too many variables. For a moment, he felt worry in the pit of his gut: deduction, while a useful skill, could only get a person, even a great person, part of the way there—there was a sort of unpredictability which made Sherlock sick. He could, simply, be wrong—why visiting John’s ex-girlfriend made him philosophical, he’d never know (perhaps the exposure to conjecture, soft science and sexual tension?). Sherlock moved to thumb the note in his pocket, placing it nonchalantly on the table in hopes to move this uncomfortable little conjugal visit along.

Sherlock and John stood next to the fireplace, John nursing a Scotch, Sherlock drumming his steepled fingers together as Sine looked at the note. A snort broke the silence and Sine began to chuckle lightly. “Johnny, I’m surprised at you—you seriously couldn’t read this? It’s so--so elementary!” Sherlock stumbled toward her, all angles and limbs, as she translated the note, her cursive neat and commanding under Sherlock’s sprawling scrawl.

T H A  E  M O  M H O R A N.  T H A  M I S E  B E G A N N.  T H A  M I  A I R  M O  D H O I G H.

_He is my many. I am few. I am on my way. (I am very good).*_

“But I can understand the confusion—this is obviously translated by a dictionary or something like that. “Beagan**” is spelled wrong, and, honestly, this makes no sense.” Sine sat back, letting Sherlock crowd over the note.

John’s eyebrows knitted as he read the note “‘He is my many’ Are you sure about that?” “Well, ‘mhòran***’ is the aspirated form of ‘mòran’ and ‘mòran’ can also mean ‘a lo’—why are you two gaping like that?” John moved to grasp the finial on her chair, his face darkened with concern. Sherlock was already tapping out a text message at a million kilometers an hour:

The note was translated—reason to believe Moriarty or S. Moran responsible. Begin looking for concrete evidence: John and I will start here, you in London. –SH 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Tha mi air mo dhoigh” literally means “I am on my way” but the colloquial understanding is “I’m very good” or some other expression of feeling generally great."  
> ** Little, few  
> *** Much, many


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter this week because, you know, it happens sometimes. 
> 
> Contains discussion of probable adult themes...? Is that the best way to word what happens?

Following the big reveal, John sat on the make-shift bed in the library/extra bedroom, laying out his clothes for the next day. “It all makes sense now!” John began excitedly, deciding on which jumper would keep him the warmest while they were out investigating tomorrow. Sherlock sat in a brown armchair next to the window, the only other piece of furniture in the room beside the daybed that wasn’t a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf packed to the absolute maximum with scholarly tomes. “The anagram, the choice of words, the ‘army of one’ bit, the need to make us emotional--” He tittered on, unawared of the unamused gaze and eyeroll Sherlock was directing at him. 

“Make you ‘emotional’. And that isn’t emotion you’re feeling, it’s nationalism.”

John sighed, folding his arms. “Oh toss off, Sherlock. Now all we need is concrete evidence to tie Moriarty and his goons to this and everyone gets closure.”

“Interesting diction there, John, ‘closure’. Perhaps Moriarty isn’t the only one looking for ‘closure’.” Sherlock mused, reclining in the chair. John narrowed his eyes, ‘watch it’ very clearly written all over his face. A million things ran through John’s mind in the brief moment: why couldn’t Sherlock see what he saw in Sine? A valued friend, a gifted scholar, an important piece to the puzzle—oh, that’s right, because Sherlock. The silence that filled the once cozy library was chilling; the friends stood awkwardly, each waiting for the other to start. Sherlock cleared his throat as if he were making some big, earthshattering proclamation. “I-I don’t think it will be so easy to catch Moran, or even probable to catch Moriarty. The clues do not directly implicate--.”

John sighed, offering a weak smile. “I know Sherlock, and, even if you won’t say it, I know this case has really got you—you’re usually pretty stroppy, but this is a little—We’ll get him, don’t panic.”

Sherlock sighed, he knew it was his turn to say something nice, or at least somewhat not “not good”. “Ms. McLean—Sine, has nothing to worry about. I want to know if she’s felt threatened by anything, but it would be a bold, perhaps stupid move for anyone to make an…attempt on her—while we’re here, at least.” He grimaced the whole time, feeling like he was saying absolutely nothing of importance, or even linguistic merit.

John smiled brightly. “You know, you two are so similar: you wits, your charms, your abilities to be complete berks. I guess it’s no surprise that we are so--” His next statement silence by a knock at the door.

“Boys?” Sine called out before pushing the door open. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her when the door opened—she was dressed for bed, unruly hair braided, glasses on, baggy jogging pants with the name of a University on the leg, unguarded. “Sorry about the close quarters. I put you, Sherlock, in here—I know you don’t sleep much, so I-I thought you could find something to read in here.” Sherlock nodded briskly, John letting Sine know that was as close to a gushing “Thank you” as she was going to get. “John, I was going to get you a sleeping bag, but I thought it would be better if you slept in my bed. I got accustomed to big beds in America, so there’s plenty of room. I promise—no funny business.” John just nodded, gathering himself before moving to stand, Sherlock catching the momentary, dopey look on his face.

“Goodnight”

“Goodnight”

Alone again. Sherlock sighed, moving to flop on his bed. He and John were standing on the precipice of yet another serial killing spree carried out by Jim Moriarty. He knew a couple things: his friendship with John would always be backseat to his love life; these murders weren’t carried out by Sine; John was still feeling something toward her; and they would, undoubtedly, have sex (make love?) tonight. Sherlock, he would be awake, his heart sad, his mind whirring.


	6. Chapter 6

Sine was the first to stir, forcing her tired eyes to open.

_I need to have a smoke and hide the evidence before John gets up and can lecture me…_

She gently moved from his chest, drawing the thick, dark blankets to cover his bare skin. She smiled, her fingers hovering over him. John was so peaceful when he slept; actually, for having been a solider, John was a very peaceful man—his body was peaceful, his actions were peaceful, his love was peaceful. Sine sighed inwardly as she carefully rolled from bed. Of course she had sex with John; it was something undeniable, like a hot summer following a wonderful spring. Of course he was sweet and strong and exactly just a little more than she needed (but exactly what she wanted). Of course it was (back-arching, silently screaming) perfect. Of course they talked about it, laughed about it, promised it wouldn’t happen again—where had she heard that one before? She pressed a soft kiss to his temple, her body willing him to sleep and wake at the same time.

She picked through her things silently, gathering her cigarettes and as quietly as she could muster, pulled on her pajamas and a thick wool cardigan. Choreographed steps took her toward the main door and into the grey morning. Beautiful waves of mist rolled over her own personal moors and munros* . She took in a deep, deep inhale, a little dizzy by the time she made herself exhale. She wanted to crawl back into bed with John, to crawl back into his arms and share is warmth, but she had classes to teach today and a friend to meet for lunch and a nagging feeling to not get in too deep—but she was already too far gone. Her cold fingers fumbled with her cigarette lighter for a moment, a brilliant red cherry parting the silver mist. She took a deep drag, tossing her head back to exhale in a slow rumble of laughter. “Sherlock. You sure are an early riser.”

“Indeed.” He rumbled back, but hovered inside the house, the door just open far enough for him to stick his torso into the cold.

“Well, come on, you’re letting all the heat out. Want a smoke?” She said, tipping her cigarette case out to him. Sherlock coolly took a cigarette and lit up, taking an equally deep drag. “Simple pleasures.” Sine said, her words hanging in the air like stale smoke. Sine watched him out of the corner of her eyes as the two stepped away from the house (at her urging, worried the smoke would disturb John) and leaned against the bonnet of her car. The sun was just beginning to peek over the edge of one of the taller munros—finally daybreak in her own solitary paradise. Her mind buzzed with questions: _Did you sleep okay? Are you hungry? Want another cigarette? Want to let me into the big mind of yours? I can help, I want to help, I need help._ Sine coughed lightly, crushing out her cigarette and tapping out a second. “Second helping on breakfast?” She said gently, handing him the case, the two still not having made true eye contact. She watched him French exhale, take a drag, exhale again. She furrowed her eyebrows, taking another hit. “Sherlock? How long have you been in love with John?”

He turned his head quickly, those fabled blue-green-grey eyes locking in on her—concern? Anger? Mistrust? Fear? Understanding. “I don’t think that question is relevant.” He took a skittering pause, looking for something to over himself with. “You don’t, love him, that is—at least not in a romantic way. And neither does he, you.” He said coldly, hoping she hadn’t noticed his statement regarding John was all wishful conjecture and that she’d offer him another cigarette.

“Fair enough.” Sine said simply, already having gathered all the data she needed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, but sighed nonetheless and took the final drag from his cigarette, Sine’s tiny fingers placing another one in his hand. Sine’s eyes were locked on his face, determined to say her piece. “I’m sorry we didn’t hit it off and I’m sorry we probably never will. You’re a brilliant man and a great friend to John—a better friend than I ever was.” Sine crushed out her cigarette and looked up into the cloud filled sky. “And if it hadn’t have been for you, I would have probably never have seen him again—we had something great and...” "I've noticed." Sine laughed nervously, having seen him shift, looking for a way out of this conversation. “I’m sorry again—Sometimes, I can’t stop talking…”

“I’ve also noticed that.” Sine threw her head back in a roar of laughter, a gentle smirk filling Sherlock’s face. “Well, if John wasn't up before, I’ve definitely woken him up.” She said as she rubbed her arms, turning to head inside. Sherlock lingered near her car, finishing his cigarette, the gears whirring again. He shook his head, taking long strides into the warm house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * A geographical feature, like a big hill or a small mountain


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fall Semester at my University starts tomorrow, so I apologize in advance if the updates are less regular than before! 
> 
> Also, another (very) short chapter but fear not, for actual crime solving is in the near future.

John was standing in the kitchen, dressed, trying to figure out how to use the percolator. He never even looked up. “Oi, how many cigarettes then?” 

“Two for me,” Sine said, a mischievous smile on her face “and three for him.” 

“Sherlock…” John started in a warning tone which was corrupted by his joy at figuring out the machine. 

“John, what are five cigarettes among friends?” Sherlock said coyly.

John looked unamused, but Sine was delighted. “Help yourselves to anything you like—I have to get ready for Mary Shepherd to pick me up—you remember her, right John? Studied architecture?” 

John groaned, forgetting his cigarette lecture. “How could I forget. Could uh-could we have the keys to your car then? Strictly for the investigation, of course.” Sine smiled, nodded briskly before heading down the hall. 

John fixed Sherlock’s sickly sweet coffee, taking his with just half-and-half. He leaned against the kitchen island, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “How did you sleep, Sherlock? That little day bed looked nice for a kip.” 

“I didn’t, I was reading all right.” John simply nodded, not willing to fight with Sherlock about his sleeping habits, not willing to ask him what he’d read. There was a silence, like both men had started talking and stopped to gather their thoughts—it was driving Sherlock distracted, to the very edge of whatever little restraint he had. “I know you asked Sine to marry you.” He blurted—God, what was this new found penchant for blurting things out? 

John choked on his coffee, earning a couple of concerned thumps on the back from Sherlock. “Bed pardon? Which book told you that? Is there some kind of insect infestation associated with a failed proposal?” John felt heat rising in his ears—that was something me never wanted to think about ever again. 

“No, nothing like that. I deduced it from how you and Sine interacted…and she more or less told me.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, his eyes searching for John’s. “John, John—I didn’t mean—W-we can-” 

“It’s nothing.” John said, trying to keep his tone as amiable as possible. 

“That’s in the past.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update!

_“Sine, I have something to ask you…” The shoddy internet connection crackled, masking most of the nervous in John’s voice. A small hinge popped, and a bemused group “Oooooh!” sounded off-screen in the barracks. All of Afghanistan has never been so stiflingly silent. How could he be so absolutely stupid?_

Lying wasn’t in John’s nature, but he never, even for a moment, believed that Sherlock could empathize, let alone understand what happened to him. To be rejected and then phased out, all alone in some sand-deathtrap? His heart pounded in his chest as he collected his things from Sine’s room. How could he be so stupid, again? He was a child, playing with fire: Sine, doctoring, crime, soldiering—the danger reminding him he was alive, and he needed it. It was absurd that the most stable thing in his life was Sherlock. He shook his head, willing away all of it, if just for a moment.

“John?”

John nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping around. “Sine.” He said, gasping like he’d been kicked in the chest. She smiled, tipped her head to the side. She was completely dressed and ready to go—considering she was wearing her work pumps, her ride would be here momentarily—perfect time to just say what he needed to say, right? “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve had quite the fright.”

“No, everything is not okay. You told him, about us.”

Sine tipped her head even farther to the side. “What is this about, John? You mean Sherlock? All I said was that he’s a better friend than I ever was.”

John scoffed. “That’s a gross understatement.”

Sine folded her arms, attempting to puff up her short stature. “Excuse me? I’m being completely honest when I say I didn’t tell him anything and I would rather like it if--”

“This is Sherlock Bleeding Holmes were talking about—you could have said anything and he would have figured it out,” John began, interrupting her. “I don’t care what you’d ‘rather like’, not anymore at least.”

Sine sneered. “Why are you acting like this, John? The big city strip you of who you are or just your manners?”

“Maybe I’m just making up for lost time, administering a taste of your own medicine—I am a doctor, or did you forget that was what I was doing in the military? Or even that I was there?” John said calmly, gathering himself like he gathered his shucked clothes from the night before—methodically, medicinally. “Or maybe, instead of handling things like an adult, like a woman in her late twenties should have, you just stopped writing.” Sine parted her lips to say something, the anger dying in her eyes as she turned on her heel and stormed into the grey morning. John lifted his chin, watching Sine clamor into a little red sedan that hardly had time to come to a full stop. He swallowed hard, trying to calm himself, his fist balling.

…

Sine casually pressed her fingers into her eyes to stop them from welling over as she made pleasant small talk with Mary. Rain drummed steadily on the roof of the car as they zipped along the rural streets. “We’re going to be late, but I know a shortcut” Mary said idly, the car accelerating and making a sharp turn.

Sine simply nodded, watching out of the window as the rain began to fall harder. She picked her head up, moving to play with the radio dials. “Mary? Mary, there’s something in the road.”

Mary pressed the weight of her hand into the steering wheel, the horn blaring. “I see it—hopefully we can just spook it and not have to-”

“Oh my god, Mary, stop the car! Stop the ca-!”


	9. Chapter 9

John poised himself as he packed up his things, going over “the plan” in his head. They would stay in Scotland tonight, but not with Sine—no, they would borrow her car, they would rendezvous at the University Sine taught at and hand over the keys and John and Sherlock would stay in a hotel. He took a calming breath and walked into the kitchen, full Capitan mode, about to tell Sherlock about the unchangeable changes to their plan. “Sherlock,” He began, watching Sherlock poke at a little tub of yogurt with a spoon.

“Why do they even make plain yogurt, John? It’s only good for growing mold colonies…”

“I don’t know, I suppo—No, Sherlock, there’s been a change of plans, we’re—”

“Leaving as soon as possible, I know.”

John sighed. “I suppose you got that by, I don’t know, the temperature in the room or—”

“You and Sine had a fight; I just watched her storm out.”

John let out a chuckle, perhaps only because it was the opposite of crying. “I’m-I’m going to go collect our things from the bathroom.” Sherlock simply nodded, poking at his yogurt a little more.

 

A young man in a maroon sweater ran, full speed, through a throng of people, absolute panic in his eyes. He knew people were angry at him—they already didn’t respect him, what if they came after? Didn’t they know there was very little he could do? He was so important to this operation, it was almost comical—just someone to get their hands dirty while the true star basked in the glory of “mission accomplished”. He was expendable. He ran to a building, never stopping for a moment, even as a secretary bolted up from her seat, stammering out requests for his credentials, his clearance. The young man just ran, a blur of maroon, tan skin and well-manicured black hair. A window!—he stopped, just for a moment, to look out. Still no sign of her—he was going to be late and royally fucked. He composed himself somewhat, his trembling fingering reaching for the rotary dial on an old phone, his prim nails dragging along a set of numbers. He, he reminded himself again, was so very expendable.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the loud trill of the phone in the sitting room. “John, could you get that? I’m preoccupied.”

John came briskly into the room, sparing a moment to glower at Sherlock, who was simply seated in a chair, fingers pressed together.

Sherlock sighed. “What? I’m only trying to catch a serial murderer. Anyway, it might be one of Sine’s students or native speakers and you can at least fumble your way through _Gàidhlig*_ .” He said, is accent purposefully bad.

John heaved a great sigh and picked up the receiver.

_“Halò **?”_

_“Haidh. Cò tha sin? Càite bheil an àrd-ollamh?***_ ” A tinny voice barked rapid-fire.

_“Ruigidh dàil doras! Th-tha mi_ , no, that’s not right, _Is mise--****”_

“Sir,” The voice replied in a very plummy accent. _So a student, then._ “Do you know where Professor McLean is? She hasn’t shown up and we have a lecture hall full of angry students and benefactors. In about ten minutes they can all leave and it’s not like her to be late and the fund-”

“Boyo! Calm down! Sine left here about an hour ago, a Mary Shepard picked her up. I’m sure she’ll--”

“Dr. Shepard hasn’t shown up either. Her last class was cancelled due to professor absence.”

Now Sherlock was interested in the conversation, clamoring off of his perch to stoop over John and listen. “Is Dr. Shepard ever late?” Sherlock piped up, his hand crushing John’s between him and the phone.

“U-uh, no, not usually, sir-s?”

Sherlock could barely contain his smirk, pulling his hand away so quickly John almost dropped the phone.

“Come on John, I think we have a lead to investigate. Please tell the young man to cancel the class.” John nodded, physically puffing up and ordering the teaching assistant to cancel the class, briefly assuring him that they’ll find Sine. John gathered his coat and the keys to Sine’s Jaguar, looking up at Sherlock with concern.

“D-do you think she’s been hurt?”

“We can only hope so. Oh, don’t look at me like that! We can only hope that yes, she hasn’t been seriously injured, but that she’s been abducted by Moran. Now quit dawdling, time is not on our side. And give me the keys—you drive too slow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Scots Gaelic word for Scots Gaelic  
>  ** Hello?  
>  *** Hi. Who is this? Where is the Professor?  
>  **** Slow and steady! Is me…I am—

**Author's Note:**

> * Epsom Downs is the site where, in 1913, suffragette Emily Davison threw herself under the king's horse and was trampled. She died shortly after.
> 
> ** Cheeky or naughty


End file.
